Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (18 page)

“Curious,” he says with that smirk that never seems to go away. “No matter. This way.”

The passage is narrow, damp, and slick. The farther down we go, the clearer the air gets. It isn’t long before I smell the sea. It reminds me of Cerion. Of Saesa and Margary. Of my invention, left to gather dust at the bottom of a pit. I wonder how long it will take for them to notice that I’m gone. Through all of it, the Sorcerer’s words nag at me. He’s right. Mevyn and Ki might not know I’m in trouble at all, but Valenor never seems far away. As much as I refuse to call him, to endanger him, he must know I’m in trouble. Why hasn’t he tried to help me yet?

The passage twists and turns for hundreds of paces, until finally a dim light brushes the stony walls ahead. As we near the light, I can hear the rhythm of waves crashing on stone. The sound calms me. I close my eyes and I could be sitting at port, watching the lifts go up and down.

When we finally get to the end, I can tell right away we’re nowhere near Cerion.

Mist from the rough sea drenches us almost immediately. The waves that crash below are unforgiving. They smash the black rocks with relentless anger. The sky is cast with strange greenish clouds. On the horizon, a dark funnel plunges from them into the sea.

Osven grabs my arm and pulls me to the edge of the cliff. His gray robes whip and snap around us violently.

“What do you see?” he growls into my ear over the roar of the storm and jabs a finger to the sky.

I look up into the clouds as a spike of lightning cracks into the sea. At first I only see the storm. Then, as the clouds swirl above, a dark form emerges. A stone in the sky, black as the ones being pounded by the sea below. It’s like the ground itself broke off in an enormous chunk and floated away. Looking at it leaves me with a slight feeling of unease. The idea of it is disturbing. Creepy.

Looking closer, I see a dark line like a jagged streak of ink across a page that stretches from the floating stone into the sea. A staircase, maybe.

I glance at Osven, who is staring intensely through narrowed eyes into the storm, searching for what he obviously can’t see. He looks down at me and I understand right away. The floating stone is concealed with magic. The eerie feeling I get from it is just a hint of the real power it holds. Wards and enchantments so strong that it’s invisible even to this braggart Sorcerer.

He looks down at me and I gaze into the sky, pointedly away from the floating stone. If this is what he needs from me, I refuse to give him any hint of it.

“What do you see?” he asks me again. His grip on my arm is strong. If I say the wrong thing I could anger him. Even without magic, he could throw me over. Into the angry sea. I take advantage of his desperation. If I can figure out where I am, maybe I could plan an escape. I turn slowly to look behind me. Up the black cliff face.

Perched high above us on the edge of the cliff is a fortress. Tattered banners flap angrily in the storm, scrabbling like red and orange wraiths against the slate sky. Its ramparts are half-crumbled but still a strong enough defense. Several of the windows glow with firelight, their colorful glass a bright contrast beside the pitted gray stone. I wonder how many Sorcerers are in there, bent over scrolls, reading tomes, preparing rituals. How many of those dark fae?

“My patience with you is threadbare,” Osven hisses into my ear and shoves me toward the cliff’s edge so my toes hang over and only my heels are keeping me from falling to my death.

“I see a storm,” I say, peering up at the floating stone and then away. “A funnel cloud. Waves crashing on black stone. Green sky.”

“Tell the truth,” his shrieking voice stabs my ear.

“I am,” I lie.

“If you see nothing but that, you are useless to us,” he presses me closer. One of my heels slips from the edge. “Do you understand? Look again. What do you see?”

My heart races. If I told the truth, he would know about the stone in the sky. What harm could that do? What is that stone, anyway? Is it Margy’s Brindelier? Is it the city on the coin? I squint up at it again as I try to scramble back from the ledge. It seems too small to hold a city. A house, maybe. A street, but not a whole city. There are no spires rising into the clouds. All I can make out is the thin black line that goes to the sea, and something like an archway at the top of it.

What harm could it do? It doesn’t matter. If he can’t see it, he isn’t meant to. I don’t bargain with Sorcerers.

“I see a storm. Clouds of green. An angry sea,” I repeat.

“You,” he spits into my ear, “are a filthy liar.”

Before I can react, before I can think to fight, he shoves me from the edge. I scramble to keep from falling while Osven’s wicked laughter pierces through the storm. It’s no use. I claw at the stone. Rip my nails bloody as it streaks past. Tumble toward the sea like one of Margy’s dolls. My elbow splinters painfully on the stone. My body thuds against the rock again and again. My hip smashes against the craggy cliff. The pain is unbearable. My head cracks. Before I reach the thundering sea, I black out.

Azi

“The Dusk and the Dawn,” the queen says much later, after hours more of kissing, celebrating, dancing, and general merriment. For a while, Rian and I allowed ourselves to get lost in the revelry. He becomes the carefree boy I grew up with once more, happily slighting nearly every pretty fairy in the great hall as she vied for his attentions, only having eyes for me.

The two of us are still aglow with love even after the rest of the fairies have retired and left us and our companions alone with the queen and Zilliandin. I recognize the trusted advisor from Flitt’s earlier memory. He has not once left the queen’s side.

“Ever have the two factions met with conflict, as you might imagine,” her Majesty explains quietly. Rian tucks me into his arms as we settle before her throne on cushions, content and exhausted as children in a nursery listening to a bedtime fairytale. Beside us on her own cushion, Flitt yawns and leans into Shush, whose eyes are half-closed and just as sleepy as hers.

“As long as the stars have been blotted out by morning sun, as long as the moon has shone in the dark sky of night, as long as light has cast a shadow, each of us has fought for the upper hand.” While she talks, the waning sun beams across her throne, casting crimson light over the pure white of her gown. “It is the natural order of things, and one that we have come to accept. As long as there is light, there will be shadow.

“It is a boon to us that the Dawn holds the upper hand in this arrangement. Though there is balance, it nearly always tips in our favor. But from time to time the Dusk breaks through and darkness overcomes the light. Right now, we are on the precipice of such a time. A great treasure hangs in the balance. For over a century, it has been protected and hidden away. For hundreds of years, none knew of it.

“With the fall of the Wellspring of Sunteri came knowledge of places long undiscovered. Cities and villages. Flats of stone impossible to find. You have heard tell of one of these places. The Kingdom of Brindelier.”

Flitt and I exchange a glance as the queen goes silent. Her Majesty lets the pause in her speech hang heavy between us. Even Zilliandin, who has been stoic and quiet all of this time, perks up. His eyes go wide and he gives an excited little squeak.

“Oh! Please excuse me, Majesty,” the elder fairy’s cheeks go rosy red.

“Indeed, Zilliandin,” her Majesty smiles. “You are right to be so delighted. It is a surprise, is it not, that I could speak the name before these two humans? The Muses’ songs took an interesting turn.”

“And to think, I’m the one who found her! Can you believe it? But you must have known, Memi, when you sent me to Kythshire.” Flitt bubbles.

“I’m not sure understand,” Rian says slowly.

“I think I do,” I venture. I tell Rian about Margy’s storybook, and how she said she couldn’t find the pages with the story about Brindelier until they revealed themselves to her.

“Yes!” Flitt chirps excitedly. “And she and Memi—I mean the queen— wouldn’t have been able to tell you about Brindelier if you weren’t worthy to be told. And not many are. You two are special, Azi and Rian. You two were meant for—”

“Now,” the queen interrupts, raising a slender white hand in elegant protest. Everyone hushes. “No need to say too much, my little Sunbeam. Even here, the shadows listen as they are wont to do. But you are both correct. That I could say the name is proof enough that we may have found our Champions of Light.”

“Champions of Light.” Rian murmurs. His tone says he knows exactly what she’s talking about. I look up at him, and he nods to the queen to indicate I should listen to her.

“Brindelier,” the queen’s lilting voice carries a melody that invokes a festival. “The lost city is a place of fellowship that has been hidden for ages past. It was closed away during the time of the Sorcerer King, but now it calls to the Dawn and the Dusk alike with promises of its power. It sings to us in sunshine and moonlight, asking us to see it, compelling us to open its gates once more.

“Ever have the Dark and the Light agreed to leave it lost and not seek it out, for Brindelier holds a great Source. The waters of its Wellspring are gold and red, blue and silver, green and copper. This Great Source feeds all others. To own it would be to own all of the magic of our lands.”

She smiles a little sadly.

“Alas, such power cannot be entrusted to just any leader. Such power is a great responsibility. One must possess the qualities of restraint, of generosity, of understanding of the Balance. One side cannot be deprived over the other, and one side must not hold control over the other. And so it remains barred. The city lies in enchanted sleep, its twin heirs ever waiting for one worthy to rule with utter clarity and symmetry.

“Still, it does not keep those determined to wield its power from seeking its gates. The Dusk has built an alliance on this premise. It is called The Order, or the Circle of Spires. They have pooled their resources with Sorcerers who have been lying in wait for some years now, conspiring and plotting. Dark fae and darker men, who scour the lands for any clue which might lead them to the Great Source. What they do not know is this: The more determined they are, the more selfish and ruthless they become in their efforts, the further they skew the balance, and therefore the more elusive the gates become to them. Still, their numbers are such that they stand at the precipice of victory. They could discover the gates at any time and take them by force.”

“Many a quest such as this has begun with a choice, Azaeli and Rian,” the queen tilts her head to the side gracefully. “Azaeli, you have sworn to seek this city for your princess. We see the seal of the promise between you plain as the Light. Rian, you have given yourself to the fae time and again in the name of the Light, and time and again you have shown us a selfless restraint which rivals that of any living Mage. Knowing so, your choice is this: Walk away from this place and the quest set before you and forget all connections and dealings with our people, or take up this quest to thwart the Circle of Spires, open the gates of Brindelier for the Dawn, and set a worthy ruler upon its throne.”

Rian’s arms tighten around me at the queen’s proposal. None of us says anything in response, not even Flitt or Shush. I can feel them both holding their breath as they wait for our reply.

“It is the custom,” Zilliandin pipes up with his finger raised, “to have a game at questions. I propose to Her Majesty that, in the interest of time and clarity, in consideration for the gravity of the quest set before them, we forgo this custom.” He blinks and gives a nervous chuckle. “Just this once, of course.”

“A fine proposal, and one that we shall grant. You may ask your questions freely, and we shall answer to the best of our abilities.”

Beside me, Flitt’s eyes go wide. She looks at Shush, whose expression matches her own. “Wow,” they both mouth to each other. The dismissal of the question game is apparently as big a deal as I would have expected.

“I have one,” Rian says right away. “Actually, I have more than I can count, but a good one to start. How long do we have to find this worthy suitor you speak of, and how do we find the city ourselves if it’s hidden to those who seek it?”

“That’s two questions, Rian!” Flitt rolls her eyes and groans. “Typical.”

“It is fine, my love,” the queen chuckles. “Zilliandin?”

The queen’s advisor pushes his spectacles up his long nose and drifts closer to the rest of us. He looks over his shoulder conspiratorially.

“You must remember what Her Majesty said earlier. The shadows listen. So anything I tell you here, anything we speak of, could be overheard by the Dusk. From this point on, you must assume they know everything you know. That being said, I’m happy to answer your questions, Mage. It is our belief that you have found the suitor already. You will find the answer to your second question in Orivosak.”

Leaving Rian to ponder his answers, Zilliandrin turns to me.

“And you, my dear,” he gives a little bow, “have you a question?”

I think long and hard on the ocean of information that’s been revealed by the queen, and as always my thoughts go to Cerion. Obviously, Margy is the suitor, but she’s also the last living heir to the throne of Cerion. Eron is dead, and Sarabel has married off to Sunteri. With no one to rule in His Majesty’s wake, what will happen to the peace of our kingdom?

“I understand the importance of keeping the Dusk out of Brindelier,” I start slowly, turning over my thoughts carefully before I speak them aloud. “But if the suitor is who I think it is, it will leave our kingdom in chaos. We will have no one to hold the throne, if our only remaining heir lays claim to another. If we were to accept this quest, how could we ensure the stability of Cerion?”

Rian turns his head slowly to look at me. His eyes are wide with disbelief, and his mouth opens slowly before he snaps it shut again.

“That…that’s really an excellent question, Azi,” he says in awe. I guess I should be flattered, but I’m a little annoyed that he’d be so surprised that I’d come up with it.

“It is difficult for us to understand the delicate balance of the governments of man,” Her Majesty says with a patronizing smile. “Though we know how important your peace is to our own survival. The Plethore Dynasty has kept our secret for over a century, and for this we are grateful. If your quest were to succeed, Azaeli Hammerfel and Rian Eldinae, it would be the start of a new age for all of us. An age of kinship. It is our hope that fae and folk could live in harmony after the gates of Brindelier are opened, and the time of Ili’luvrie could return once more.

“As such, your suitor would keep a throne both in Cerion and Brindelier, and all of the territories of both would fall under one ruler.”

“You mean to say,” I gape at the queen, “the suitor would rule over both, and have command of the Source of all of the Wellsprings, everywhere?”

“That’s a lot of power,” Rian says quietly. “Too much for one person.”

“If it is meant to be, then the way will be open to you. If the right suitor is chosen, then your path will not be difficult. Brindelier will guide you,” Zilliandin says with a smile. “The Great Source, the city, is a power in itself. It lies in wait for the proper alignment of the stars, for the Champions of Light to show themselves. If you are meant to succeed, you shall.”

“Do not make it sound so simple, Zilliandin,” the queen warns, “the Dusk encroaches. They will try to take the city by force, if they are able to find it. They will stop at nothing to keep you from your goal. Your quest shall not be as simple as my advisor makes it seem. But if you are true to the Light, the way will open to you.”

“The first step,” Zilliandin nods, “is to accept the quest.”

“I have another question first,” Rian says quietly. Behind his eyes I can see the cogs turning. His mind is racing already, and more answers will surely set his head spinning. “In recent months, there have been many portents of some great dark force. We at the Academy have seen these warnings come in many forms. Is it this Circle of Spires, this Dusk you speak of, or could there be some larger, darker force that threatens?”

“We, too, have seen the portents you speak of. We cannot say for certain, but if the Dusk is allowed to present its own suitor, and if this suitor is allowed to reign, then a darkness unlike any that has been seen will fall over the Known Lands. Light will become shadow, and good will be snuffed out forever. This faction of Dusk is ruthless and hungry for power. Long have they felt that the balance is too oppressive. They will crush the light for the sake of their own power. Hopelessness and cruelty will reign.”

“Chosen heroes face the end of the world against all odds,” Rian murmurs. “Light versus Dark. This is a tale I’ve read many times.”

“The good news is the Light always wins, right?” Flitt tries to sound cheerful, but there’s a hint of doubt she can’t quite hide.

“We’re certain you have more questions,” the queen says, “but the sun sets now, and we’re certain you’re all quite spent. You must decide whether to accept the quest laid before you, or walk away and lose all memories of this place and those you have encountered within it. We shall give you the night to think it over. In the morning, we shall feast and hear your declaration. For now, go, and rest your weary heads.”

Before we can protest, the queen makes an elegant gesture and the scene before us fades away. Flitt, Shush, Rian and I find ourselves in a room with glowing walls of rose petals. Four beds draped with gauzy white webbing and dressed with lavish silky coverlets line the wall, and opposite them a fire of blue and golden flames crackles merrily. There is a table set with fruits and wine and draped in sparkling cloth. Orbs of light drift lazily through the room, casting soft, soothing light.

The inviting coziness of the beds makes me realize how very tired I am, and the table of food makes my stomach growl.

“Typical,” Rian sighs as he strides to the table. A whisper and a gesture of a spell ensures him that the food is safe to eat. He pulls out a chair for me and nods with a forced smile. Across the room, Flitt and Shush converse in secret whispers. Once in a while, they throw a glance our way. I sink into a velvety chair, and we both eat in thoughtful silence. The berries are plump and perfectly ripe, and the wine is the best I’ve ever tasted. Together we eat our fill, and eventually Shush and Flitt come to join us.

“Looks like it’s okay to talk freely in here,” Flitt says thickly around a mouthful.